


Butterflies

by nonlaconic_queen



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Angst, Between chapter 9 and 10, Butterflies, Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I’m not actually sure if this is graphic or not but just to be safe, Ocean, Oneshot, Regret, Sad, Trauma, Tysm for reading!, self blame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonlaconic_queen/pseuds/nonlaconic_queen
Summary: Simon loved butterflies.Loved. Past tense.Essentially, Ralph is hard on himself for Simon’s death. Angsty oneshot.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first try at an angst fic, so pardon the suckiness. Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy!

_“What a caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.” -Richard Bach_

Gone.

At first, Ralph couldn’t understand it. To be honest, he still can’t fully understand it. It had been less than twenty-four hours ago that Simon had been standing here with them and being the sweet, quiet person he was.

How could someone go from here to gone in twenty-four hours?

After the initial disbelief, there had been guilt. Ralph had thought he’d known what guilt had felt like. After all, he’d sure felt guilty when he’d broken an old vase at home, or when he’d lied to his dad about getting a D on a test. But that guilt seemed like a walk in the park, compared to what he felt now.

This time, he hadn’t obliterated a vase his parents had never really liked. This time, he’d obliterated the life of Simon Cambourne.

That, in itself, was hard to believe. He’d helped _kill_ someone. He was a _murderer_. If he’d been back home and helped kill someone, he’d be going to prison. Of course, the fact that he killed _someone_ wasn’t the biggest problem. He’d have time to worry about that later. No, it was the fact that he’d killed _Simon_.

Simon.

The one who’d reassured him that ‘he’d get back to where he came from’ when he was starting to get hopeless.

Simon.

The only one who’d thought to help him with the shelters.

Simon.

The shy, bright-eyed boy who’d come with him around the island on the first day. Who’d always been a bright spot in the darkness. Who’d never done anything wrong. Who didn’t deserve to die.

Ralph stands now at the “scene of the crime,” per se. He’d been hesitant to return, out of fear for his own life, but he’d heard that _they_ had relocated to Castle Rock. He’d be relatively safe here.

Although the ocean seems to have swept away most evidence from the night before, blood still stains parts of the sand. It’s like splatters of red paint- a gory portrait of the disaster last night. He cringes, suddenly feeling sick. If the grisly beach is a work of art, then Simon was the paint, and he and the other boys were the artists.

Ralph now stares out at the sea, rather than the sand. He figures Simon’s body has drifted out into the ocean, and is floating somewhere in the vast abyss of the Pacific. He wonders if Simon liked the ocean. Somehow, when they’d spent all that time working on the huts together, he’d never thought to ask.

How was there so much he’d never thought to ask? He should have asked about Simon’s family: what they were like, whether or not he had had any siblings, what he’d liked to do with his parents. He should have asked about his hobbies. Did he like to draw? Read? And what about the choir? How had that been? He should have asked Simon his favorite color, favorite book, favorite food… And whether or not he’d liked the ocean.

The fair boy bites his lip, gently closing his eyes as he feels his stomach turn. Although he wasn’t sure if Simon had liked the ocean, its salty scent- similar to that of blood- and its ebbing and flowing towards and away from the slightly washed-out streaks of red on the sand makes him sure that _he_ doesn’t.

Something in the back of his mind tells him that it’s not _his_ fault. Really, it was _their_ fault- _they’d_ called the figure in the distance “the beast.” _They’d_ charged over to it, screaming like maniacs, with their spears at the ready. _They’d_ stabbed Simon, regardless of his desperate pleading for them to stop, and his terrified sobbing, and the obvious helplessness of “the beast.” Ralph, of course, hadn’t done any of that.

But he hadn’t done anything to help, either. In reality, he was just as bad as _them_.

Suddenly, he finds himself feeling even worse. Half wanting to cry and half wanting to puke, he forces himself not to think of that anymore, and instead watches the deep blue ocean waves hit the coast.

It’s not long, though, before his thoughts drift back to the dead boy. He scoots a bit closer to the water and, although he knows it’s stupid, clears his throat and says, “Simon...?”

He doesn’t expect a response. It’d be concerning if he got one. Regardless, his heart sinks when he’s met with silence.

He goes on anyways. “Simon, I-I’m real sorry. I never meant to hurt you, let alone...” He hesitates. “Let alone, kill you…”

He chuckles halfheartedly, trying to ignore the burning in the back of his throat. “I should probably apologize for calling you batty, too. And for making fun of you behind your back. And for never appreciating how helpful you were. And… and, I guess, for being so awful to you overall. I’m not just saying that because you’re dead. I really do feel bad…”

Ralph falls silent, pressing his lips together. He draws his knees to his chest and hugs them, continuing to stare out at the sea.

Suddenly, he blurts, “Did you like the ocean?” Although he’s, again, met with silence, he continues- though, even he can hear his own voice breaking. “And… and what about books? D-did you like to read? What was your favorite animal? A-and your favorite color? Wh-what… what…”

He is unable to finish his sentence, because he bursts into tears.

Crying feels selfish. Simon is _dead_ , yet he’s the one crying. Why is he the one crying? He knows he’s got no right to cry- it is his fault.

This in mind, he manages to choke out, “T-there’s so much I should have asked you, and I never did. Simon, I’m s-so sorry. You didn’t deserve to die. You should be here…”

Of course, he receives no response. Ralph sniffles, and takes a deep, shaky breath. “But you’re not, and it’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

At this, he stops talking and wipes his tears away with the back of his hand, before burying his face in his knees. The only sounds now are the ocean crashing against the sand, and a bird cawing in the distance.

After some time, though- he’s not sure if it’s five minutes or an hour- he frowns, feeling something on his hand. Furrowing his eyebrows and hesitantly lifting his hand up so he can see it, he spots a green butterfly resting there.

And, for the first time in several days, he cracks a smile. “Simon loved butterflies, didn’t he?” He looks out at the water for what feels like the millionth time. “You loved butterflies, didn’t you?”

He receives no reply, as per usual, but he doesn’t mind this time. Staring at the insect with a sort of elated reverence, he comes to the decision that the butterfly’s got something to do with Simon. To the ocean, he asks, “Does this mean you forgive me?”

Although it’s technically silent, a wave hits the shore with a gentle _slosh_ immediately after the question is asked. “I’m taking that as a yes.”

With a renewed happiness, he turns his gaze from the water to the butterfly on his hand. His demeanor, however, changes to one that’s similar to that of a few minutes ago, when he realizes that the butterfly is gone.

“Oh,” He says numbly. He looks around for his insect friend, and finds it flying in the distance- only a speck in the inappropriately cheerful sunny blue sky. “I guess you’re gone.”

_Gone. Like Simon._

He sighs dolefully, mind wandering to the question he’d had before: _How can someone- something- go from here to gone in less than twenty-four hours?_

It seems the butterfly had just answered that- they had better places to be.

He’s somewhat content with this answer. Maybe that meant Simon was in Heaven. He deserved it.

Even if it’s not Heaven, Ralph is certain that wherever Simon is, it’s better than being around the same boys who’d caused his death.

Wherever Simon is, it’s better than being around him.


End file.
